


Can I, please?

by banerising



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: M/M, Murderface May, daddy dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6866227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banerising/pseuds/banerising
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pickles decides to take action, he will make Murderface his father figure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can I, please?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Charliegolightly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charliegolightly/gifts).



After all they had gone through with Skwisgaar, after all the goddamn daddy issues being brought up with each other, Pickles found himself just wanting to get away from it all.

Even now, sitting in the kitchen with the group and watching Murderface with a weirdly close eye. He watched as Murderface just stabbed repeatedly at the table, he watched the way Murderface seemed to have gotten more defined muscles-- Feeling sick and pissed off, Pickles stood up and made a piss poor excuse to leave before toddling right out of the room.

He walked through the halls, rather he played bumper cars with the walls and anybody who got in his way before finding some little alcove to sit down in and hold onto his bottle of rum? whiskey? who knew. Whatever it was, he clutched onto it like it was his life and chugged from it, draining a good majority of the bottle before leaning against the wall and on his elbow.

As the world tilted and continued to tilt after he settled on his elbow, Pickles thought about how Murderface just fucking _babied_ Skwisgaar, pretending like Pickles didn't exist-- Throwing the bottle against the wall across from him with a loud cry of anger, Pickles slipped and hit his head, but he didn't care. It was just a bruise.

God, how fucking pathetic was he?

It wasn't even right, Murderface was _younger_ than he was. Pickles pulled his knees closer to his chest, curling into the wall as if it were the warmth of another person and not just some stone wall. He felt himself sniffle slightly, soon followed by another wave of disgust at himself. This wasn't how the drummer **for _DETHKLOK_** was supposed to act.

Maybe he shouldn't have been the drummer.

He stayed there, in the little dip in the wall, behind a Knight's Armor statue or some weird medieval shit; until he passed out.

His sleep was uneasy, filled with nightmares of his real father throwing him out, yelling at him about how worthless he was, yelling about how he'll never amount to anything *good* and that all Pickles had done so far was nothing. He would never be as good as Seth. He would always be worthless.

At some point, his nightmares morphed into some twisted version of Murderface and Calvert, both of them pointing to the door, screaming at him to get out, to live in the trash-- because that's where he belonged. God, he belonged in the trash and not even anywhere near his friends. He was so horrible. Unworthy of any of their love.

* * *

 

Feeling the kick to his shoe, Pickles stirred out of his terrible sleep and glanced toward the figure that loomed over him.

"God, you're pathetic." Murderface's latter lisp stood out, making Pickles draw his knees in further. "C'mon, you big baby." Murderface grumbled, sounding bothered as he leaned down and grabbed a hold of Pickles' arm.

The grip was tight, it hurt, but Pickles was too out of it to really fight his band mate-- and if he were honest to himself, he didn't want to fight against Murderface. He stumbled to his feet, his dreads messy and falling in his face, having a hard time actually covering over his bald spot. Pickles did his best to keep up with Murderface, but his limps were uncoordinated and he wasn't sure where they were going-- or even where they were at, for that matter.

"Keep up." Murderface urged with a tug.

This all felt very childish.

Time passed weirdly when Pickles wasn't exactly sober or exactly black out drunk. He didn't know how long they had been traveling in the hallways, but when they got to Murderface's room, the drummer felt a spark ignite low in his belly. An idea snaked into Pickles' mind and he knew exactly what he wanted to do to get what he wanted.

With a strange sense of renewed vigor, Pickles let himself be practically tossed into the bedroom before he stumbled to his feet, moving toward the bassist's bed-- it wasn't the first time he had been in Murderface's room, having been so drunk in the past that none of the guys trusted Pickles to be alone, or even in the hands of the Klokateers-- he struggled slightly before pulling off his wrist bands and tossing them onto the floor, followed by his shoes.

"Uhh, what exactly do you think you're doing?" Murderface asked with disappointment seething into his tone.

Pickles flailed as he tried to kick off his pants before falling and becoming a mess of half on jeans-man, he struggled with the jeans before Murderface sighed like Pickles was a child who couldn't help themselves. Even while sighing like that, Murderface had come over and yanked on one of the pant legs, making it easier for Pickles to slither out of his clothes and he sat on the floor then, on his elbows.

 Looking up at Murderface after being helped out of his pants, Pickles thought about how many times any of the guys had to do that for him. He thought about the last time he had to be helped out of his pants, that he could remember, and he thought about how it must have been awkward. Pickles looked deep into Murderface's eyes for a moment, seeing something else there, something other than that guarded 'I'm so annoyed at you, right now' look and he licked his lips.

Murderface shifted, looking away after that and looking uncomfortable before he stepped back and crossed his arms. "Get in the fucking shower, you reek like a dead dog." Murderface sounded annoyed, but again, now that Pickles was looking for something more, he could totally tell that there was something else going on with Murderface.

Slowly standing up and peeling off his shirt, Pickles hesitated slightly and thought about actually going to go shower versus the benefits of staying here and annoying Murderface. When he finally felt that the showering actually outweighed his need to bother somebody who *wanted* to be a father figure, Pickles made his way toward the bassist's bathroom.

Before he stepped into the room, he easily slid off the tighty-whities and glanced back at Murderface. He _totally_ caught Murderface looking at him and that made the drummer feel smug.

Getting into the bathroom, Pickles stopped and came to realize that Murderface had a huuuuge ass bathroom. Slowly stepping around to the showering area, Pickles looked at some of the products Murderface used and felt slightly annoyed. No conditioner. Ugh.

Pickles turned on the water and shivered as the water hit him. He washed his body with the Irish Spring soap, glad to have snuck the last of that over the Axe Body Wash. God, why was Murderface such a tool?

Fuck, why did Pickles want his attention so badly?

So badly that he was-- Shaking his head and dreads out of his face, Pickles forced himself not to think on his idea. He was going to do it. It was the only way.

* * *

 

His shower was short, for the most part, and the soap made him both amused and upset. He grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his waist and stepped from the bathroom without even bothering to dry off. If he couldn't go through with his idea, he could at least piss Murderface off by getting water all over his bed.

At the door way, he spotted Murderface just moving to lie down on his own bed. Pickles felt himself become tightly wired like a slightly over-tuned guitar. He practically vibrated.

Being careful and as quiet as he could, Pickles stepped over to the bed and got onto the bed, the towel wrapped around his waist still as he kneels over one of Murderface's knees.

Murderface looked at him with a confused and edging on pissed off, look. He went to open his mouth and demand what the **fuck** Pickles was doing and why wasn't he dried off? Is that--

Pickles leaned in, close and licked Murderface's lower lip. He gave this quiet little whimper before he ran his hand over Murderface's crotch slowly, "be my daddy~?" Pickles asked, his voice hazy with lust.

Murderface certainly looked stunned and that thrilled Pickles even more. He used the stunned silence to his advantage, he pushed Murderface down onto his back before he pulled the bassist's sheets and boxers down.

Despite the momentary... disgust at the sight of Murderface's hardening cock, Pickles couldn't stop himself now. He was going to get praise one way or another and he was going to get it from Murderface. That was final.

Taking the other man's cock into his hand, Pickles started to slowly jerk him off before looking up at him, biting on his lower lip. "Can I?" Pickles begged softly. "Please, **_Daddy_**?" He purred before leaning down, licking at the cock head. It seemed he had stunned any response out of Murderface's mouth as the bassist just stared down at Pickles. Because holy fuck, was this really happening?

Without waiting any longer, Pickles took Murderface's cock into his mouth. He started to switch between sucking and bobbing his head, getting low grunts and soft little moans from the bassist. After a moment, Murderface's hand grabbed the back of Pickles' head and forced him all the way down on the bassist's cock.

As Pickles gagged, mostly out of surprise, he felt Murderface hold him steady. When he felt somewhat calmed down, Murderface started to fuck Pickles' mouth like it was some flesh light rather than it being Pickles.

Quickly bracing himself on the bed and helping as much as he could with Murderface's impending orgasm. Some part of Pickles knew that this was going to happen, Murderface didn't seem like the type to just let it happen. The guy liked to have as much control as he could and Pickles was just fine with being a tool for the other man, _if_ it meant that Murderface would praise him.

There was no warning to Murderface cumming, he just suddenly was and he was crying out 'yesss' and 'so good' to Pickles-- which made up for all of it. The drummer felt like his eyes were watering as Murderface rocked his hips a bit more in his orgasm before letting go of Pickles' head and dropped his hips back.

He was sure he looked like a mess as he pulled back, cum and drool dripping off his lips and his eyes red with tears-- Pickles wiped his lips with the back of his hand before swallowing what he had in his mouth. The drummer slowly crawled up Murderface's lap, settling just under his slight belly and pawed lightly at the man's chest.

"You don't breathe a fucking word about this to the others." Murderface said, his tone full of threats and warning, and Pickles rolled his eyes.

Which had been a mistake, it seemed. Murderface grabbed a hold of Pickles' throat and yanked him closer. "You don't breathe a fucking word of this to the others." His voice really did convey just how serious he was.

Pickles felt his face grow hot as he was caught being sassy, "I fuckin won't. Get off, god."


End file.
